A Small Death in the Great Glen (37 page)

“—with instructions on where to meet.”

“By the canal bridge, on the road north, at eight in the morning, when it would still be dark,” Jenny informed him.

“So.” McAllister paused; Jimmy topped up his glass. “So, if nothing is done or said, this Polish man Karl will be prosecuted and most likely found guilty of the murder and sexual assault of the boy—”

At that, Jenny winced in shock. “Surely no?”

“That's what happened and those will be the charges, Mrs. McPhee.” McAllister spoke gently, seeing even in the dim how shocked his hostess was. “Unless something can be done to prove Karl couldn't have done it.”

“This changes things,” Jenny muttered, looking straight at her son.

There was a hush in the room, if you could call this
canvas-covered space a room. McAllister knew better than to ask for help.

Jimmy McPhee spoke. “Or else it can be proved that someone else did this filthy crime.”

There was a pause in the discussion as the three mulled over this thought.

“You do understand our situation, Mr. McAllister.”

It was Jenny who needlessly reminded him that the plain fact of being a Traveling family of the north—of anywhere in the country—made it almost impossible for them to be witnesses in front of a judge and jury, even more impossible when the accused was a foreigner.

“As Jimmy says,” she pointed out, “the only thing for it is for the real murderer to be found.”

And that, McAllister knew, was that.

He next reached into his inside pocket and produced the envelope with the photograph and handed it to Jimmy. Jimmy stared at it, grinned and passed it on to his mother. She examined it, then handed it back to her son, who examined it again more closely. Neither of them commented; they were never in the business of handing out information, they just sat and bided their time.

“My brother, Kenneth, second row on the right.”

“I did wonder,” Jimmy said.

“You knew him?”

“Barely. But aye, I did see him around the boxing club. I was a boarder wi' the brothers so I never got to know him properly.”

“You heard what happened?”

“Aye I did, an' I'm right sorry.”

With no introduction nor thought, McAllister went straight to his and his brother's story.

“In those days I thought I was the bee's knees; working on a
prestigious newspaper, new friends, breaking away from my background, going up in the world, my own man. I had my own single end, but I still had my dinner with the family most Sundays. I met up with my brother now and then for a Partick Thistle game. But the ten years' difference was too much for me to have a real relationship with him.”

Jenny and Jimmy McPhee listened without interrupting as McAllister told them the rest of his family's story. But when McAllister reached the subject of the boxing club, Jimmy became restless.

“My mother still has all his photos and cups, keeps them in her cabinet. That's where I found this picture.” He looked down at it, although there was no need, it was imprinted on his brain.

“Anyhow, he became silent, moody, wouldn't get a job. But as I said, I really didn't pay much notice.”

He faltered.

“A dram.” Jimmy placed a tumbler in his hand. McAllister tipped it down. “He came to see me one Saturday, late. I'd been out wi' the lads and had had a few. All I was fit for was my bed. He tried to talk. I fell asleep on the couch. The next week, he gave it one more go. We met for a Partick match. I was on late shift, I had to go to work after the game, so I only had one beer. When he needed to talk, I let him down, too drunk. This time I was too sober, so again, he couldn't say anything.”

McAllister stopped, caught Jimmy's intense gaze, took another gulp of whisky and continued. “He drowned in the Clyde. Jumped off the suspension bridge, the one from the Glasgow Green to the Gorbals. My mother has never believed he killed himself. But he did.”

“What did you think?” Jenny asked.

“I didn't think, I was too shocked, too guilty. Later, I came to accept that he jumped,” McAllister replied. “I also realized that
something made him kill himself, he was trying to tell me what, and I hadn't taken time to listen.

“Then months later, a story came through on the boys' boxing club. It was to be closed and a presentation was to be held marking the end of an era. It wasn't my job to cover local news, a cadet did that, but for some reason I went. I stood through the usual boring speeches and was about to sneak off when a mention was made of a former instructor, a pillar of the church and club so the speaker said. I didn't catch the fellow's name but I did catch the curse from the man behind me. He said, and I quote, ‘May he rot in hell, the bastard.'

“A woman wheeshed him and he left. I tried to follow, but by the time I'd pushed my way out he was gone. I never did find that man.”

“Tell me, John McAllister, what's this about?” Jimmy queried.

“An obsession of mine.” There was no joy in his self-mocking laugh. “Let's just say I'm not overfond of priests.” Then he told them of the children and the hoodie crow.

“They were playing a game, right?” Jenny asked. “The boy rang the doorbell, the door opened and they say he was lifted up by a hoodie crow, right?” Then Jenny thought, “Maybe they saw the idea of a hoodie crow.” She smiled at the skeptical face.

“You're too educated, McAllister. But think on it. The hoodie crow—the Baobhan sith to us Highland Travelers—can be an evil spirit.”

“A crow that feasts on dead flesh, pecks out the eyes of newborn lambs, is a harbinger of bad luck—yes, I see that.” McAllister continued, “What you're saying is, they saw something, something big and black that they couldn't make out, and their friend disappears, so they make up the idea of a hoodie crow.”

“But why can it no' be for real? Bairns can see what we canny see, or what we have had bred out o' us.”

“Maybe.” He sighed. “The boy's body being found in water, the same as Kenneth, brought it all back for me. …”

“Find who did this, McAllister,” Jimmy ordered. “Find who killed the boy. And any help you need, just ask.” He stood. The audience with Jenny McPhee was over. As he walked McAllister to his car he made a promise.

“The other matter, we'll think on it. Any man, even a foreigner, at the mercy of thon eejit Inspector Tompson, has my sympathy. He has my double sympathy when he's locked up in the town prison. Not a nice place that.” Jimmy shuddered at the memory.

The next morning, McAllister sat in his office contemplating the previous night and the phone call from Sandy Marshall. His friend had used all the resources of the paper, not to mention a few favors and a bit of cajoling. Nowhere in the labyrinthine administration of the church was there any information on a Father John Morrison. His last posting before being sent to the Highlands was a church orphanage; that was all Sandy had been able to find out.

A very irate Inspector Tompson had told McAllister not to call again. “Father Morrison is a respected member of the community. I know him personally, being one of his congregation, and a fine man he is too.”

“For God's sake, listen to me,” McAllister cursed, then apologized for blaspheming.

“For the final time, it's none of your business but yes, we
have
questioned Father Morrison. Yes, the boy disappeared near his house and yes I've had his background checked and no, there's nothing to make me doubt his word. He's a man of the cloth, for goodness' sake.”

McAllister got in his final question.

“For the last time … the tinkers aren't talking. They've not-so-conveniently disappeared into the wilds of Ross-shire. As for them being an alibi for a Polish DP—who would trust a tinker's word anyway?”

McAllister slammed down the phone, threw his head back and, looking for all the world like a wolf baying at the moon, he let out a string of curses, never heeding that they might be heard in the reporters' room or the office downstairs or through the town and out into the wind to be funneled down the faultline to all of the Highlands and Islands.

S
IXTEEN
 
 

Get your jammies on, you two. Hurry up, or the cinnamon toast'll get cold.”

Sitting around the fire, Joanne was deep in her worn womb of an armchair, the threadbare arms covered up with off-cuts of tartan, knitting. Annie was sprawled on her stomach over her beloved red pouf with Egyptian motifs stamped into the leather, which she bought at the church jumble sale with her pocket money. Jean was lying on the hearthside rug playing with a doll. The three of them were deeply content. Joanne had a fleeting shadow of guilt for not missing her husband. Annie was relieved that her father was away. And Wee Jean did not think about it at all, too busy enjoying the happy household.

“Half an hour to bedtime,” Joanne told them as the news ended on the wireless. “One of you, fetch the dominoes.”

By the third game, Wee Jean was half-asleep and taking ages to lay down a domino, driving Annie crazy.

“Play your five.” She nudged her sister.

“How do you know I've got a five? Mu-um, she's cheating, she's looking at my dominoes.”

“Right, let's call this game a draw.” Joanne winked at Annie and for once she didn't argue. “Upstairs, girls. Brush your teeth and call me when you're in bed. Then one story each.”

The girls asleep, a concert on the Third Programme; Joanne was in her nightie and dressing gown, curled up in the armchair. She loved a quiet house, a good fire, a good book, a cup of tea and the wind outside. She occasionally laid the book aside to stare
into the flames, remembering the encounter with McAllister. She was half nodding off, when footsteps outside gave her a start. Someone rapped on the front door. She went into the freezing hallway.

“Who is it?” No one she knew would come to the front door.

“Is Bill Ross there?”

“He'll be back in a minute.”

“Can I have a word?”

“Who is it?”

“Jimmy Gordon. A pal of your husband's.”

“I'll tell him you called by.”

Joanne talking through the locked door, was now shivering.

“The thing is, Mrs. Ross, or can I call you Joanne”—he continued the conversation through the door—“I heard he's still out west and I have a wee bit o' business wi' Bill. It's urgent. Some financial situations to work out. An' I've got tae get it settled out afore I get back to Glasgow.”

“I see.” She didn't. “Financial situation, you say.”

“Aye, a wee business arrangement me and him have. Mrs. Ross, I'm freezing ma' arse off oot here. An' I dinnae want to discuss delicate matters what wi' the neighbors listening an' all. Maybe we could discuss this inside?”

That did it. She unlocked the door. But not just one Gordon stood there. There were three, three peas from the same pod. Joanne was mortified when she realized she was in a nightie in front of strangers. And they were strange indeed. They went from first brother to third brother in eighteen-month intervals, all three the same Glasgow-short height, all three round and solid with greased, slicked-back, black hair. Brothers two and three had that blank, numpty, brought-up-on-chips-and-pies-and-Irn Bru look about them. Brother number one obviously was the boss. “Sleikit” was the only word for him, but with menace added. He
grinned at Joanne, his whiter-than-white full set of false teeth beaming out as bright as the Channory lighthouse.

She took them into the kitchen.

“As I was saying, me and Bill have a wee business arrangement going and I wanted to make sure he understood a' the terms and conditions. If you get ma drift.”

“Terms and conditions,” repeated brother number two.

“Ye know,” contributed brother three.

“No, I don't know.” Joanne didn't invite them to sit down, so they all stood in a circle. She was cautious but curiosity won. “Why don't you tell me what this is about?”